Abattoirs of the Heart
by she dreamt she was a bulldozer she dreamt she was from outerspace
Summary: I let him rub my thigh under the table, I let him smalltalk me back into his motel room. I am dizzy, tired, and alone in Mexico. What other choice do I have? [AU CraigxMarco slash Adult Themes rape, male prostitution, drugs]


**Abattoirs of the Heart  
**_Late Afternoon, Date Uncertain_

I am dizzy, tired, and alone in Mexico.

My forehead burns, my throat is dried out, and I am shivering enough to almost care. The sun is shinning brightly outside despite the cirrus clouds, those pathetic, wispy puffs of ice crystals that are barely there.

With great effort, I breathe in the desert heat. My nostrils expand, and through the dust, I struggle to inhale. A flash of pain goes through me as I exhale. I'm rasping, sort of panting. A rib might be broken. It's a very sad affair.

The place I'm in is lit dimly and without remorse. A ragged set of draperies cover the windows, strangling any light that would enter. The building is wood and ancient and sagging. The termites are doing nature's slow job of erasing man from the planet. I entered because I wanted an escape. Everyone inside this stinking tavern is dead to the world. The setting is gloomy and perfect for the dark mood I'm in. I sit in the corner drinking nothing, believing nothing, watching the regulars pace through their mundane lives. I've accepted the truth, the truth that my life isn't any better.

My eyes are half closed and my mind, sedated. My body is in control and it's pulling me down, down, down into the deepest sleep I've ever imagined. I suppose I'm hungry. My last meal was yesterday, picked out from an overturned trash bin. I spent all of my money a week ago, and everything that I'd brought with me has either been stolen or pawned. My fingers twitch and my body craves nicotine. A pack of Marlboros sit in my jacket's left pocket almost two thousand miles away from here, along with my life, my family, and my love.

The smoke that hangs above the barroom engulfs my mind. I don't know how I got here. Or if I do, I've forgotten or maybe even blocked it out. At one point in my life I figured that forgetting was easier than remembering. I didn't have to think as much. Or care. I should be sorting through the memories that are clearest in my mind, but they are terrifying and the ones that I want to forget the most.

A queasiness erupts from inside and my hands flutter up to hold it back. When they've done their job, I chew on hangnails, dried blood, and dirt that's still there from a week ago.

I don't want to think about that. About what happened or why it happened. About how desperate I've become. Even though my mind is ill with a cold fever, I still know that what took place was wrong. A part of me thinks I should still be screaming, crying, begging. Instead my body rests. Save the energy for my lungs, I think. I feel too dull and too used and too apathetic to move. It's hard enough to breathe.

The front door suddenly bangs open. Out of a newly formed habit, I shield my body away from the source. The light hurts my dilated eyes anyway. When nothing particularly dramatic happens, I look. It's just another stick-thin Mexican sidling in for a beer or twelve. Nobody I know.

Not that I'm expecting anybody. Who would know to look for me here, in this bar, in Mexico, anyway?

My hands drop from my mouth and rest on my leg. All over my body there is a stain that is invisible to everyone but me. I don't want any contact with it, so I move my hands onto the table. I touch the things that keep me sane: a bottle of medication and a medium-sized bag of cocaine wrapped in brown, crinkly paper. My suspicions are nestled right next to them inside the bag.

I realize it isn't the pills that keep me going. It's the coke and a fear of uncertainty. But try telling that to my psychiatrist. Well, in another life I had a psychiatrist. In this one I just have illegal drugs. They're essentially the same thing, except coke has better side effects. I can faintly recall my first hit. The day we got here, a never-ending line of white powder, and Sully, egging me on.

I barely can suppress another fit of shivering. I know I'd better watch out for anybody who's noticed my feeble state. They'd get the idea to take advantage of me. It's happened before. I bite my chapped lower lip in a quintessential manifestation of self doubt: I am weak with hunger and a sickness and can barely breathe. This is pathetic.

I close my eyes, just for a moment, just to stop the room from spinning. When I open them, I can see a little better. My stomach is in knots. When a man that had been eyeing me for half an hour comes over, I start to weep a little. Like me, he's not from around these parts. He's an overweight, middle-aged, balding American insurance salesman. I know because he told me a week ago, right before I sold my body to him.

He offers to buy me a sandwich. Even though I know what'll happen, I accept because I'm so, so hungry. The American watches and smiles and buys me another after I demolish the first in no time flat. I let him rub my thigh under the table and eventually small-talk me back into his motel room.

My name is Craig Manning, and I am still dizzy, still tired, but not-so-alone anymore.

**Disclaimer:** Degrassi does not belong to me, but this story does.  
**A/N:** I hope you enjoy this enough to drop a review. That'd be fantastic.


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